


letters written in apostasy

by biiitchofCambridge



Series: deuxième [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: 5+1 Things, Bethany POV, Bitter Character, Bitterness, Brown Hawke Family, Chantry, Character Study, Character of Faith, Child-age apprentices, Circle Mage Bethany Hawke, Circle Mages, Custom Hawke Family, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Forbidden Love, Having Faith, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Innocent Bethany, Just mentioned though lol, Kirkwall's Cirlce is BAD, Letters, Love Confessions, Mage Abuse and Opression (Dragon Age), Maternal Instinct, Other, Physical Abuse, Playboy turned Priest, Religious Guilt, Reunited Siblings, Revolution, Self-Hatred, Self-Pity, Sibling hugs, Strap-Ons, Throughout the events of DA2, Trans OCs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:21:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24610705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biiitchofCambridge/pseuds/biiitchofCambridge
Summary: This is where things get awkward. I don’t know how to finish this love letter. When I woke up, the sun had dawned, and over the cruel harbour and the city that the Maker turned against, I felt faith, as strongly as I had the first day I allowed myself to. Bethany, Maker preserve me, but I think I’ve fallen in love with you.
Relationships: Bethany Hawke/Sebastian Vael
Series: deuxième [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1703305
Kudos: 5





	1. confess. I

**Author's Note:**

> Originally, I just wanted all of the romances in the game to have a significant other, but now I've fallen down this rabbit-hole of a ship... it's so wholesome you guys.. *sheds a tear*

When Bethany thinks of her dream man, she thinks of the line of his shoulders, first. _They must be wide_ , she thinks. She is twelve, her body just beginning to stretch from its infancy. Her hair is a bob of wood-shaving curls that grow tighter the longer they stretch— her eyes are a pretty brown, everyone says so, and she smiles like a soft summer sun when they do. 

When she thinks about her dream man, he is like her: _perhaps a mage_ , she thinks. _Or maybe he’s just good like Mother_. 

Bethany doesn’t look much like either of her parents. She’s taken her father’s skin and lightened it, taken her mother’s nose but widened it. Her eyes are a pretty brown like Father’s, but they aren’t his eyes. She wishes she could be like Garrett, who looks most like Father, or Carver, who takes rather kindly after Mother. Mel takes after no one either, and Bethany thinks that might be a sign. But Mel is her own person, was born fighting and screaming, and Bethany is not like that. 

Bethany asks Mel what she thinks her future husband looks like. Mel laughs; she is fourteen and hateful. 

“No man will reach between my legs and call me anything, Beth,” she’s said. Her hair was haphazard again— she’d had _another_ spat with Mother. 

Bethany likes to think that all of her siblings are to show the differences in personality, but she rarely understands why she and Mel are so different. Where Bethany finds comfort, Mel chafes; where Mel is happiest, Bethany is most miserable. Mel could talk about her doe-eyed teacher all day, but if anyone asks about the boys that follow her shadow like flies to shit, she growls out a _They're lackeys._

But Bethany still dreams of her future husband. _He will have kind eyes,_ and _he will like dogs and cats equally._ She finds a crinkled leaf of parchment and begins to scrawl it down. 

_He will want children, at least two_

_He will never be mean to me about magic_

_He won’t be afraid of Mel’s bad attitude_

_He’ll get on with my brothers_

_We’ll share blankets and his heartbeat will be strong_

_I will get to wear nice boots for our wedding day, ones with rose-gold buckles and a small heel_

Bethany saves her list, hides it into a pair of woollen socks so Carver won’t think of reading it— he hates wool, and he hates socks even more. 

__

_To the Lovely Lady Hawke,_

_I was enamoured by our conversation at last mass and I cannot stop thinking about it. Is it true Garrett was horrified by the verse of the martyrdom of Andraste as a child? I must tell it to him again if he can’t find it in his earthly body to stop calling me ‘Stark Naked’ when I take my shoes off. I am a man of faith, not a fool who’d tramp on your mother’s carpet. How is she? I haven’t seen her in a fortnight besides ‘hellos’ at mass and I should go visit her— she makes such a lovely chocolate cake._

_I am unsure how to say this in an orderly fashion, so you’ll have to excuse my fumbling, but you looked rather exquisite in your robes. If that is too forward, I do apologize profusely. I just wanted you to know that I thought the pink was a very good colour, especially with your eyes._

_Please do take care of yourself,_

_Sebastian Vael of Starkhaven_

__ 

As Bethany is scrambling to pack up their lives, she stuffs all of their socks into her pack, along with underwear, all of the trinkets they can sell, and—

Bethany sees her stupid little love letter peeping from her folded skirts in her drawer. She grabs it, thumbs at its creased edges for a moment. Before she regrets anything, she stuffs it down her bra. 

When they get onto the ship in Gwaren, it’s the only thing she has on her person, besides a heavy heart and Mel’s hand on her shoulder. 

Garrett is beside her, his hands limp as he rests his arms on his knees. He’s staring at his feet, his arms dirty and his face dirtier. He’s handsome, has the same strong jaw as their father, but he’s forlorn and old in his ache. Garrett was at a friend’s when Mel went and retrieved him. She hasn’t spoken to him since, but she’s not mad. _Everyone and their mabari would know if Mel was mad,_ their father used to say. 

Bethany shifts on the creaky floor of the ship, takes a peek up at Mel. She looks godly, as the busts of Andraste do, if she wasn’t stark white and thin. Mel’s face is broad, meant to hold the weight of her terrible expression. Her hand squeezed tighter as a man gave Bethany a dirty look. Bethany’s a blusher, turned red when she saw his… problem. 

Mel spat in his direction, and the message was sent. He turned away. 

The ship rocks and sways for a long time. Bethany wished she knew the time, but she cannot count on anything as a nod to how long she’s been in the hold. Food is erratic, and when the captain hollers for the _broad-backed, we need upside, the sea’s hungerin’ for our blood,_ Bethany cried into her mother’s neck as she watched her siblings leave, one-by-one. Carver was first, as he was broadest, Mel was second behind him because she was most brazen and Garrett pulled up the rear to damage control their quick tongues and sharp teeth. Bethany would usually follow him in hopes to help, but she cannot help here. She looks down at her tatted dress and feels nothing but sadness, a sinking rock in her belly. She and her mother are thrown around the hold, but they do not let go. Not for a breath.

When Garrett limps down first, his hands are blackened and his face is gaunt. Mel has Carver’s arm over her shoulders and she’s marching him down. Garrett falls onto the rough deck and lands on his knees. Bethany helps him crawl to their mother’s lap, who takes his face into her hands as she brushes the soot from his face.

Bethany looks at Carver, whose eyes are half-closed. Mel’s jaws tighten.

“A sailor fell in and he jumped in to save him. He nearly drowned, but Carver got him out.” she sighed tiredly. She laid him down jauntily, leaned him against the rough ribs of the ship hold’s wall. Bethany brushed his damp curls away, watched as he began to snore. In the quiet of the ship, Mel and Bethany shared a look, and they laughed softly, just at how _stupid_ Carver could be. Mel kissed his wet forehead, and she kissed Bethany’s, too-- a rare gift from a rarer moment between opposite sisters.

__

_Dear Sebastian,_

_I want to apologize for my assumptions with the chocolates. My good brother Garrett has seemed to have pulled the wool over our eyes. He’s had his laugh, and I think I’ve laughed a little, too. Wouldn’t it be a tale of complete tragedy if you did like me? A circle mage and a lay brother of the faith, in love? Maker, I can see the tale unfolding in another of Varric’s books._

_I am glad to hear from you, however. It’s good to know you aren’t scared off by my family. Most would run to the hills the moment Mel opens her mouth or Garrett gets that grin of his._

_I do want to thank you for getting me that copy of the book, too. I loved the tale of Andraste’s Mabari when I was a child, and to read it to my students is something I look forward to._

_In thanks,_

_Bethany Hawke_

__

Bethany has to smuggle with Garrett. It is easier than one would assume, too. But Bethany has been carrying her secrets like jewels and explosives her whole life.

Garrett likes men. It is something they all knew but didn’t discuss. Garrett has never been secretive about it, but he never really said much until they came to Kirkwall, where it is so common there are graphics of it in Lowtown (and Hightown if you know where to look).

He has a man around all the time; strong, Lowtown boys who’re beaten and bruised and beautiful in their bumps; sailors from the Docks, with their tanned skin and bleached eyes and rough hands. A rich, highborn boy that keeps himself and his toys lavish. Garrett has them entranced, but he never keeps them.

“Why do you take so many to bed?” Bethany asked one night. She’s dipping her feet in the harbour; the water is eerie-still, molten silver as the double moons, pale and faceless, stare over them like loveless gods.

Garrett has salt dried on his eyelids and his curls are loose in his face. He looks profound here, in just his smalls and smile.

“Because I can now.” He replies softly. He has one leg folded underneath him, the other disturbing the peaceful water. Bethany looks at the ripples, then looks back at his face. Garrett is timeless, even as the black hair of his temples turns to salt.

“Why don’t you?” He asks, cocks his head to the side and his eyes squint as he smiles deeper, laugh-lines in his tawny skin.

Bethany considers. A soft, sweet breeze blows the scent of Kirkwall onto the back of her neck. “I haven’t been brave enough to yet,” she decides, folds her hands onto her lap. She sees the smatters of freckles on her legs, listens as the water laps the wall when Garrett stills his foot.

“Beth,” he says, “you’re one of the bravest people I know.” His eyelashes catch the moonlight, and Beth feels her bones strengthen. She thinks of that scrap of paper in her little chest of items, thinks of the dress she’d like to wear on her honeymoon, envisions her future children.

She smirks at her brother as she splashes him, “Perhaps, one day, I’ll have laid my husband as many times as you have had one man for a night.”

Garrett splashes her back, “I kept a few for a fortnight!”

They laugh, the water warm and the salt heavy on their skin.

__

_Dear Bethany,_

_I had a dream last night. I was at the Chantry in the Gallows, holding mass like I do every Sunday when I suddenly stop talking. The mages of Kirkwall look at me as if I am foolish until they see what I am staring at._

_There you are, wearing a robe of blue and white, my family’s tartan slung across your shoulder like a shawl. You smile at me with your beautiful face, and I feel Andraste pushing me from my place at the altar. I never thought leaving the Chantry would be sanctioned by our Prophetess, but I felt her warm hands lull me away from the Good book and into your arms. You never stopped smiling, not once, and when I said your name, you said, “Husband.”_

_Then the dream ended, and I was alone in my tiny cot in the cathedral._

_This is where things get awkward. I don’t know how to finish this love letter. When I woke up, the sun had dawned, and over the cruel harbour and the city that the Maker turned against, I felt faith, as strongly as I had the first day I allowed myself to. Bethany, Maker preserve me, but I think I’ve fallen in love with you._

_In love,_

_Sebastian Vael_

__


	2. tender I.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Why was I given this curse? Why didn’t the Maker give it to Mel, who would use it? Who could shoulder it? I am too weak for this. Maker? Maker?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short n sweet lil chapter, i have two jobs now so my body n brain has sorta just collapsed :(,, but i wont abandon my baby!!
> 
> cw for sorta depressive episode vibes :(

Bethany goes to mass every Sunday and has since her mother has allowed her. She loves the colourful glass, the smell of incense and the feel of the hymn books in her hands-- brittle, like tinder, but held together despite the fire she could bring. She feels the Maker’s warmth in those few hours as if she is not hunted by Templars and hated for her magic. She loves her Maker like she loves the sun-- unending, bright and thankful.

When they get to Kirkwall and are finally settled, Bethany goes to the Chantry. Carver is with her, so no one will ask questions, and Bethany sits on the pews and contemplates herself. Carver sits with her, too, because he’s just as religious as her, no matter what he says to talk big to his disbelieving older brother. Bethany sees the light shining in his blue eyes when he looks to the bust of Andraste; it is devout and young. The only time Carver looks twenty-one is when he’s bathed in cathedral candlelight and is humming to the hymns he knows better than any chanter. 

They sing together. Carver has a good voice, the best of the boys. Garrett sounds like a choked chicken. Mel is better than Bethany, has a prettier voice, but Bethany can carry the tune longer than anyone she knows. She is perseverance. Her family might have kept her free, but her gilded cage is still a prison.

She’s walking home with Carver when they see them. Bethany has a flower in her hair and Carver is chewing on some souvlaki. It is midday, hot and crisp, not a dogfly to see. Bethany will always love Ferelden, but she does not miss her country. There is a breath of sweetened air, free of smog and sweat. Hightown smells like how Kirkwall smells outside of the city. Like how it should all the time.

The flower flits from behind Bethany’s ear, and she turns to chase it. She hears Carver snort at her. She chases her flower down and just as she stops it, someone dips to pick her flower up, too. His hands are cold, veins threaded in cyan. Bethany scrambles backwards and she looks up at him.

He is blond and broad. He looks distinctly Ferelden because he is bleached, but pinked. Hearty in his alabaster skin, not like Orlesians who have orchid petals for complexions. His hair is curly but cropped so short that he barely has hair. His eyes are brown, but white man brown-- like stream-water after a storm or the bottom of the beer tankard. He gave her a little smile as he offered her back her flower. Bethany plucked it carefully from his hand, focusing on the cobblestones beneath her feet and the pin-point of Carver’s icy eyes on the back of her neck.

“Thank you,” she whispered before she backed away from him. He smiled, unaware of her discomfort or perhaps revelling in it. Her eyes flitted to the Templars behind him, how they lounged like fattened cats in a haymow after August. Bethany turned and rushed to Carver, who put his hand on her shoulder as he walked her to the Merchant’s Guild.

Bethany hates how Templars make her feel. Her skin crawls and her mouth dries. She feels as if she’ll never be clean from them, or that they’ll never see as something more than a warm mouth and dangerous hands. She feels the salt of her tears collect in the corners of her eyes, how it wells and wells and wells. But she does not cry, not until they’re in the Hanged Man and Varric is patting her arm, pressing a kiss to her temple as he stands for another beer for Carver.

Varric is handsome. His chest is broad and his hands are squared.  _ Built like a fuckin’ shit-brick house, _ Mel says. Bethany thinks he’s what a good-hearted man looks like. He has laugh lines and soft amber eyes. He has a gold tooth and his shirts are opened to his navel, but he’s classic in his own way. Bethany lays her head on his shoulder as she watches Carver scheme and scheme as if he were Mel. He is a tad drunk, she can tell by the dull shine in his baby blues, but he’s angry more than anything else.

Varric is laughing at him and drinking too. He slips an arm around Bethany and sends her a caring smile. Bethany sighs into his chest, and before she knows it, she wakes up in Varric’s bed beside a passed out Carver.

Carver is snoring in that sawing way which means he got into the wine. Varric is sitting at the little table in the center of the room, scratching away at a paper with his little reader’s perched on the tip of his permanently crooked nose. His brow is squinted, and the flame of candles licks at his features softly. Bethany sits up and stretches. She pads barefoot to Varric’s dwarf shaped desk and sits down on the floor, rests her chin on the table like a dog begging for scraps. But nothing needs to be begged from Varric.

He peeks over and smiles at her like an uncle. Bethany knows he will only ever see her as a little girl, and she is fine with that. She can only ever picture Varric as monolithically alone as he is sun-creased. She sneaks closer and looks at his work. He laughs as he pushed himself from the table and offers his lap. She sits placidly and he begins to read to her as if she were a tiny girl. When she closes her eyes, Varric reminds her of her father. A jackass with a tongue of steel and fists of fury; funny and light and  _ good _ . Varric’s nails-and-glass voice soothes her remaining anxiety, and before she knows it again, she’s cuddled up beside her brother with her head tucked under one of his wings, Varric tugging a blanket over the pair. He kisses her forehead, tucks a curl behind her ear before he blows the candle out. Bethany smiles.  _ Fathers can be found everywhere. _

__

Bethany sees Templars kill a suspected mage. They cut her through the guts methodically, like how you slit an animal’s throat to bleed it after it’s down. But she was not down, and she was not a mage. But she fed mages for free, and that’s almost comparable to the sin of magic. Bethany feels sick, but not because of the blood-- but because they’d kill her and her brother without hesitation. Without knowledge of their character, their deeds, their lives… She wallows that day, all day. Garrett doesn’t pester her for work, and Carver brings her some honey and yogurt after he wipes the blood from his skin in the washbasin in the back. He eats some and she offers some too as they stare out of the dusty shutters, watch the wind blow the scrubby trees and rocks around as the sun sets over the dusky, bobbing harbour. He drapes a gingham cloth over her shoulders and kisses her forehead. She is hollow in her chest. She is not angry as much as she is sad.  _ Why was I given this curse? Why didn’t the Maker give it to Mel, who would use it? Who could shoulder it? I am too weak for this. Maker? Maker?  _

She must’ve fallen asleep against the wall. It is dark outside now. The air is sweeter like the ground should give sugar to the birthing sun between the mountain’s thighs. Bethany feels bitterness as she stands and stretches. Two blankets fall from her body, and she touches her head-- her bonnet was pinned in place but by tight hands. Mel is gone, usually is before sunrise, but there is breakfast on the table for Bethany and a note to  _ The Littlest Hawke.  _

_ The Maker made you and I to prove that you do not need magic to wreak havoc. Do not let the tyrants turn your heart bitter-- Father’s ashes would alight again if he saw you as cold as the rest of us. Keep yourself tender, Beth. --Mel  _

She does not come back for a very long time. And sometimes Bethany still wonders if Mel could shoulder it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are nice!!


	3. faith. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is one perk with the Circle-- Bethany does not have to hide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry!! ive been gone too long,, please enjoy this!

Bethany thinks the Maker has a twisted sense of humour. As soon as her family is lifted from poverty, she loses her freedom. As soon as the boys are ready to go on their adventure that Mel swore was foolish, their party has disappeared and Mel is gone. As soon as Mel had started to make a difference in the crowded streets of Kirkwall, she is smashed down onto the cobblestone as an example of her rebellion--  _ she is watching silently as they march her away, not a tear nor a curse upon her scarred cheeks. Bethany is sobbing, howling at her iron-gripped captors. Everyone in Lowtown, so bustling and brash and loud, are now quiet in this. That surprises Bethany the most. _

Ser Rutherford, the Knight-Captain,  _ the Fist of Mad Meredith Stannard,  _ marched her personally to the Gallows. He kept an eye on her as if she’d set the whole ship ablaze.  _ You stole the wrong sister,  _ she thought to his direction,  _ I am fickle.  _ He remained as obtuse as a door and eventually moved his stoney gaze to survey the craggy rocks that made the harbour. The bright noon sky made the silverite of his armour glimmer and the gold-spun of his shaved head gloss. Bethany wanted to hate him, but she mostly ignored him. He was not as lecherous as he was painfully alone-- that served worse punishment than anything Bethany could ever do.

She was thrown into the Harrowing chamber as soon as her feet touched the cobblestone of the howling, dusty courtyard. It was ominous, more so than a hardened sister at a funeral or a hateful Templar in the twilight as they trail a convicted mage  _ in the eyes of the Maker.  _ It swallowed Bethany up, like a guppy to a crane. Like a  _ little hawk  _ to a greater bird, or a bear, or a dragon. She slipped down the Gallows’ gullet easily enough-- she was too tired to kick and scream like the rest.

Bethany passed her Harrowing. And she passed the second, too, and then the third. Meredith was not satisfied with her until they ran dry of lyrium in the deposit, and only then did they release her to her quarters-- an alcove’s worth of room shoved into a broom closet. She had a wide window with glass that did not lock. Bethany did not ask why they didn’t bar the windows-- she knew, as sure as she was magical. Besides, there were still blood spats that she could see on the ground that laid forty floors below.

She slept for four days straight after they dumped her in her quarters. She crawled to the thin cot and crawled on top of it, where she laid down and passed out. She woke up in a pool of blue puke and covered in a thin sweat. She looked about her bedroom, looked for looming Templars and their cyan veins. When she came up with a cracked looking glass, a wardrobe, a desk and her chest of belongings, she sagged from the tension. She rolled from bed and scrubbed at her skin-- there was a tiny chamberpot and a washbasin in the corner in front of the looking glass. It looked like someone had smashed their head into it, but she didn’t think about that.

Bethany looked at herself. Her skin was sallow, her eyes were bloodshot and her hair was a complete mess, but at least she was alive, and at least they didn’t just kill her as they would’ve Mel, or Garrett, or Carver--  _ As if anything could kill Carver,  _ she thought. The queasiness in her stomach did not stop with that idea.

She washed her hair and moisturized it twice before she tied it back from her face with a silk cloth. She changed into some robes they’d left her-- they were blue-- and smoothed them. They were too tight on her hips and far too long. Her face burned when she realized they gave her  _ men’s  _ robes. She looked at her mirror again and smiled anyways--  _ Keep yourself tender, Beth,  _ Mel’s disembodied voice said. Bethany’s cheeks hurt from the smile, but she would try.

There is one perk with the Circle-- Bethany does not have to hide. At first, it feels like her skin is flayed a layer less and rubbed with salt. She is naked with all of her clothes on and she feels all of the eyes that aren’t looking. It’s exhilarating in its terror and Bethany is always a little breathless in her stillness.

Bethany learned the Gallows quickly. She learns different spells much quicker. Her students begin to follow her around like ducklings, which she takes to calling them. Many are very small, scrawny with no love. She goes to tuck them in every night. It’s odd being a caretaker now-- Bethany was always the baby. They cling to her when Templars come around. They hide in her skirts and under her arms are shiver and shake and sob-- so Bethany stands tall for them, with her defiant lips and bright eyes. Everyone seems to forget she’s a Hawke, too.

The Templars stay away from the kids, more as a respect to  _ the Templar Killer who’ll still kill a man over a rumour that he touches kids in the night _ than for  _ sweet Bethany Hawke.  _ The children still cry at night, but not like they used to. She’s learned to never lock her door. When she wakes up in the morning, she always has a child bracketing each side and two more at her door, hair fluffy and eyes puffy from sleep. She makes sure they all get breakfast and that they brush their teeth and wear socks. Bethany fosters their magic and their hearts and their bodies-- they learn to giggle and laugh and holler with their youth. Most will not survive their Harrowing, Bethany knows, and she shields them from the worst of the Circle-- the constant check-ups, the beatings, the assault, the grievous Chantry hatred.  _ That is not the Maker,  _ Bethany coaches after each service,  _ that is the fear of men. We are just and deserve the Maker’s light.  _ The children believe her, with their pleading eyes and warm hands. They hug her, all seven of them, and they go to bed after she reads to them from the textbook. She thinks of herself when she was younger, with her missing front teeth and timid soul.

__

Bethany is in the cathedral praying when she feels a pair of eyes on her back. She does not turn to look, does not give them the satisfaction of their prickling presence. She thinks to her Maker, wills that soft glow of faith from her chest when she hears a broom. She turns curiously, as janitors are rarely seen in the Gallows, and she nearly drops from her pew.

There he was. He had broad cheekbones and a hard, squared-up jaw that was as handsome as it was serious. His hair was pulled back into tight braids, like how Carver keeps his sometimes when he’s swording around a lot, and his sharp nose made his profile as angled as it was rounded. He had a defiant chin and pointed ears and broad shoulders--

“Hello,” Bethany said. He turned from his sweeping and smiled  _ in that way that her Father would when he wanted to sing--  _

“Hello,” he answered back. “How’re you, ma’am?” He asked as he stood up straight. Bethany stumbled from the pew and looked up at him. They were at opposite ends of the room-- Bethany walked closer, nearly tripped over her too long robes-- he dropped his broom as she slid into his arms, pressed her ear to his chest and heard his heartbeat. There was no stutter, like Mel’s, unlike her’s and Carver’s and Garrett’s.

“Uh, hi?” He joked. Bethany looked up at him, suddenly shy.

“I-I’m sorry, you just look  _ so  _ much--” she looked up at him, saw his broad face with his one blue one brown eye-- “like my father.”

“What was his name?” He asked, gave her an awkward smile. “Maybe he was my father, too!” He joked again.

“Malcolm Hawke.” She said.

“Wait,  _ what?”  _ He backtracked. Bethany’s eyes went wide, as did his.

“I’m Jasper Hawke,” He said, holding out his hand, “and you must be the kid my father left for. Mel, right?”

Bethany shook his hand, “Bethany, actually,” and then she grinned, and he grinned back.

__

_ To my love, _

_ Seeing you at the services fills me with such joy. You are beautiful in the filtered pane-light of the extravagant windows in the Grand Cathedral. I cannot stress how worldly the line of your shoulders looks, or how red your auburn hair looks. Your contemplative readings and cool voice cleanse the dread from my poor bones and I feel safe in your pastorships.  _

_ In love, _

_ your Littlest Hawke xo _

__

“Oh, he’s not bad, but he ain’t much, either,” Jasper boomed. Bethany laughed, tinkling and impolite at the same time.

“Oh, he’s handsome and he knows it. The young apprentices all stand in awe of his rallying speeches,” Bethany chuckled, took a sip of the tea Jasper smuggled in for her. Jasper scattered some gulls with his aggressive crumb throwing, but they quickly receded back into their clump at his naked feet.

“And I’d bet my left nut that you’re leading the pack,” he teased, nudged her elbow. She moved her arm in time, as to save her native Ferelden tea, and Jasper laughed at her.

“That’s besides the point,” she blushed, primly dusting her robes off as she took another dainty sip. He’d picked the lock to the garden in the back of the gallows-- it had remained decrepit and closed due to some blood mage rally two years before Bethany had been inducted.

Jasper looked out over the overgrown flower plants and smiled at the swooping birds.

“I’ve had him and it’s not as good as you’d think,” he looked over at her from the corner of his eyes. Bethany pulled her lips from the teacup and quirked a brow.

“I know,” she agreed. He sent her an appalled look, and then he laughed. 

“I think you and I have the same type,” he snorted. He took a bite of his braided roll before he tore another chunk off and threw it out for the birds again.

“And what’s that? Bad at oral sex?” She joked.

Offhandedly, he said, “Oh, I know right? It’s a dick, not a--  _ that’s  _ not my point,” he retraced the point of the conversation, “it’s that he’s so grand in his movements, he’s so dedicated in his beliefs,” Jasper sighed.

“Miss his hips?” Bethany teased, flicked at his ears. He reached over and pinched the thin skin above her cleavage and she cackled as she tried to get away from him.

“The way he fucked with that strap--” Jasper sighed back into his seat, forfeiting his attempt at getting revenge.

Bethany turned pink, and Jasper giggled like a little boy. “What?” she growled without the venom. He shrugged, then he threw the rest of the bread to the birds as Bethany squawked twice as loud-- she hated birds, almost as much as Garrett hated rats. Almost as much as Jasper hated city guards, or Carver hated himself or how Mel hated Templars.

__

_ Sebastian, _

_ I am bitter. I am so bitter I fear I may break under the stress of it all. I hate that the world has me out for a monster and my own family wouldn’t give me my own autonomy-- I am mad that I don’t have choices and never really did in the first place. I am upset I cannot go to services without a guard-dog heeling me into a seperate pew from the “gentiles” and I’m upset that I am not judged based on my character or my joy for life or my love for you.  _

_ Sebastian, I fear that our love will not last, not because I doubt your affections or my heart, but because I cannot foresee the Knight-Commander’s temper to hold. Something will break. And I do not want to remain bitter and chained my entire life. _

_ I love you. I love you. I love you. But I will fight when the time comes, as if to break my bitter shell and become softened anew. Please don’t make me choose myself over you. _

_ I love you. I love you. I love you. _

_ The Littlest Hawke _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanna flesh jasper out more... so.. here he is! also: donate to BLM!!

**Author's Note:**

> comment away boys!!


End file.
